


Go Out and Love Someone

by Anonymous



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: And a Massive Creep/Dorky Virgin in General, Arkham Asylum, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Cunnilingus, Dark Comedy, Dominant Reader, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Epilogue, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Fear Play, Fear of Death, Featuring: The Consequences of Coming Inside, Forced Eye Contact, Hallucinations, Hostage Situations, I'd like to think this fic isn't as bad as these tags make it out to be, I'd sincerely like all the sanity I lost working on this fic back, In That Jonathan Crane is Fucking Terrible With Women, Kidnapping, Light Masochism, Loss of Control, Loss of Virginity, Mind Games, Multiple Personalities, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Paralysis, Power Play, Reader-Insert, Role Reversal, Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU), Sexual Inexperience, Swearing, Teasing, Technical (But Not Really) Necrophilia, Unhealthy Relationships, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vaginal Fingering, do you ever just lose control of your life and write 7k worth of scarecrow smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23570584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: You end up in the “care” of the Scarecrow. Things quickly go from bad to worse, and feelings were never part of the plan.
Relationships: Jonathan Crane/Reader, Jonathan Crane/You, Scarecrow/Reader
Comments: 28
Kudos: 149
Collections: Anonymous





	1. No Good Deed

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to a dear friend who really shouldn't have encouraged me to write this.

“You know…I do hate to be the one to say it, but you’ve been boring me lately.” Crane suddenly declared, with all the faux sympathy of someone being forced to attend a funeral for a family member they never truly liked.

While he nonchalantly pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, his sudden revelation had left you shocked enough to nearly choke on the last of your toast. Gasping for air and left with little other choice, you forced sips of scalding hot tea down your throat as you desperately tried not to cough up the rest of your breakfast.

“Now, now. Eating like a pig is hardly going to regain you my affections, is it?”

He remarked dryly, face hidden behind his morning newspaper. Even if you could see it, you highly doubted that his face would have held much more emotion, anyway. You were little more than a plaything. Kept alive on a whim. You knew that. He knew that.

And now he’d grown bored of you, what else was there to say?

This was it.

The end of the line.

It hit you, then. You didn’t even know whose house this was. Fat fucking chance it was actually his. And while you wanted to apologize to the people who’d be coming home to find your corpse, the sound just wouldn’t make it out of your mouth. You were frozen, mesmerized by the sight of the needle in his hand.

“Tch. That _smarts_ ,” He hissed as the prickly, silver length disappeared into the depths of his skinny forearm. Crane smiled at you, all teeth and no humour—and that was the last you saw of him before those mechanical, blue eyes glazed over.

\- -

In this darkness, there was nothing. Nothing but the pounding of your head and your own slurred thoughts making their last rounds, twirling around inside your dying mind.

Should have fought harder.

Should have given in quicker.

Should have just kept on walking, ignoring the injured freak instead of stopping to help.

Oh, and now you felt dizzy. All these regrets were making you sick.

There was a flickering light at the end of this tunnel, and you wanted nothing more than to crawl towards it on your hands and knees.

But.

There was a single sound holding you back.

Crying. Someone, somewhere, was crying.

For you?

They were practically sobbing, now.

You couldn’t think of anyone who’d mourn your loss this much.

The sound grew louder, and you felt something warm touch your cheek.

As if on cue, your eyes snapped open.

\- -

The sight of blurry kitchen tiles greeted you. The pounding in your head had finally subsided, and in its place was something quite strange. Was this it? Was this…really what Death was supposed to feel like? Because, really…you found it oddly pleasurable.

There was something warm washing over you - and you didn’t try to fight it.

Strange, though. You couldn’t hear crying anymore. Only soft, frenzied panting.

If anything, it kind of felt like—

Oh.

_Oh._

Sure enough, when you looked down, there he was. Dr. Jonathan Crane’s pasty, tear-stained face was in-between your spread legs. Shock, disgust, and just a little bit of wholly unwarranted arousal flooded you all at once. You tried to pull away—only to find that, well, you couldn’t. You thought back to this morning. Of course. Typical Johnny. He’d drugged your breakfast, too.

“Ahh…Ahahaha! Amazing! You still taste the same. Fascinating, it truly is…”

You could no longer make out the expression hidden behind his crazed eyes, not with those fogged up glasses still framing Crane’s face. You hissed as his lenses pressed up against you, adding pressure to a place they really shouldn’t.

“I wonder, if…” And there was no time to prep, no way to exclaim as dear old Jonathan suddenly shoved not just one; but _two_ skeletal fingers inside of you, making your eyes roll into the back of your very stationary head.

“Twitching!” Confused, you saw Crane’s face screw up in excitement. “I suppose, body spasms are…” He muttered, and there wasn’t much you could do but lie back and watch. “Just wait…I’ll milk the last of your fear out of you yet.”

His tongue quickly followed that promise, and you wished more than anything that you could scream - if only so you could hide that your fleeting disgust was blossoming into twisted pleasure. “Ahh…Can you even still feel me down there? If not, then—” He burst into maniacal laughter, nails dragging down the length of your thighs. “I’ll h-have to penetrate you with something bigger.”

Oh, come _on_. This was just unfair. When he hadn’t touched you the first night, you’d held some hope you could make it through this impromptu kidnapping _without_ being fucked by Jonathan Crane, The god damn Scarecrow, of all people—and now, with one belt unbuckling and a thrust of his bony hips, all those hopes had just gone flying right out the window.

“It’s…b-better, than in my books…” He huffed out in-between thrusts, clearly not used to being the one initiating this kind of action. With how jerky and frantic his movements were, you had to wonder if he’d ever experienced this kind of action before. Yet here the good Doctor was, taking you motionless on the kitchen floor. Curling your lip, you had to wonder what his buddies back at Arkham would have to say, if they could see the mighty Scarecrow now.

Crane was a reddened, panting, sweaty mess of gangling limbs, eyes spaced out as he sloppily thrust his inexperienced cock in and out of you, gripping onto your hips for support. Crane’s tongue was just barely sticking out of his mouth, and you could have sworn you heard him call your name as he suddenly buried himself into the crook of your neck, biting down, hard.

“Ohh…s-so warm…You’re still so warm! That’s it…” You didn’t want to admit it, but you could feel your own climax building as he accidentally brushed against that sweet spot inside of you, making your vision blacken once again. You didn’t want to go back there again, but if it meant coming one last time before you go…

“You’re such a good little corpse for me, aren’t you?” He whispered, and although you physically couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it—you had never, ever wanted to take back an orgasm so fucking hard. And yet with one final thrust and a particularly loud gasp, the big, bad Scarecrow was coming with you.

You couldn’t even bring yourself to care as you felt him filling you up, too tormented by what he’d said earlier to worry about whether or not it was a safe day now.

Then again, when you stopped to think about it, it all made sense—The lack of preparation, the way he’d been practically talking to himself this entire time, the _crying_ from earlier—all this time, the bastard hadn’t just been fucking you while you were paralyzed and drifting in and out of consciousness. Oh, no. That was much too classy for one Jonathan Crane.

The entire time he’d been touching you, old Johnny boy had been under the impression you were little more than a corpse. A fresh corpse, apparently, ripe for the fucking. A light tingling sensation fluttered throughout your body, interrupting the waves of disgust you were currently experiencing.

Good God, it was about fucking time you got the feeling in your limbs back.

You wanted this maniac out of you, and you wanted him out _now_. Given how _exhausted_ he appeared to be, happily slumped over on top of you, it thankfully didn’t look like it would take much. One rough shove against the kitchen cabinets later, Jonathan looked like he’d just unlocked all the world’s secrets as the fog in his eyes finally cleared. For better or worse, he was back.

“Oh…! But, I thought—” He started, but you were determined not to let him finish.

“I was dead? Yeah, buddy, I got the memo. Now what the _fuck_ did you inject yourself with?”

For some reason, Crane had started to sweat. He was going all red again, just like when he’d been mindlessly pumping away inside of you. He wouldn’t meet your eyes now, either. Straining your ears, you could barely hear him whisper.

“Fear toxin. New kind. Very…potent, clearly.” He sniffed, scrambling to fix himself back into his pants, and push his fallen glasses back up his nose.

“So…let me get this straight…” You sat up groggily, lightly massaging your temples as you tried to wrap your weary head around this lovingly fucked scenario. “You thought I was dead, and your immediate solution was sex?”

Jonathan cleared his throat. Ran an idle hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “You know, in Psychology, the study of complicated grief is actually quite—”

Nope. That was it. You weren’t going to half-sit here and listen to Professor here try and talk his way out of this one. Was his biggest fear being losing you kind of sweet? Sure. Was it enough to make you forget the fact he’d brazenly decided to fuck you immediately afterwards? Hell no.

You stumbled blindly back towards the table, downing the rest of what was now incredibly cold tea. You had already feared death once today, and looking at the man you had once called your captor now - you just didn’t have it in you to fear him anymore.

“If you don’t want me to walk out of that door right now,” You pointed towards him, making sure he was looking you in the eye. “I think you better start brewing me another pot, don’t you?”

And what made for the biggest surprise of all that night, the Scarecrow actually did as he was told—wearing a calm but calculated smile you didn’t quite like—but in time, would gradually come to know the true meaning of.


	2. Come Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One does not simply get off Dr. Crane's wild ride.

“Miss me already? Why, I must confess, I didn’t think the effects of Stockholm Syndrome would kick in quite so soon.”

“Can it, Crane,” You warned, not backing down as he smiled derisively in your direction.

“Ah, ah,” He tutted, crossing those stupid, gangly arms of his. “That’s Dr. Crane to you, isn’t it?”

“Not in here, it’s not!” You yelled, accidentally drawing the attention of the guard. Embarrassed, you shifted uncomfortably in your plastic chair, staring down at the handcuffs chained around the man who’d kept you as _his_ prisoner. Ideally, you’d never wanted to see him again, but fate had a funny way of fucking you over. Really, you supposed it was your own fault, for being such a good lay.

“So? I assume you didn’t come here just to make _merry_ ,” Crane scoffed.

“Oh, of course not!” You bit back, unable to control your temper in front of the big, bad scarecrow. “I actually came here _just_ to see your handsome face.”

For better or worse—and in this case, it was definitely worse—Johnny boy still knew how to press all your buttons, and rub you up in just the wrong way.

“So,” He took his glasses off, cuffs clinking all the while. “What are you _really_ here for, my dear?”

His voice sounded much more gentle now, and you hated it. Hated him.

Hated the thing growing inside of you, specifically _because_ of him.

“I’m pregnant,” You grit out, staring into Crane’s almost lifeless, blue eyes.

Although an audience wasn’t exactly what you came here for, you couldn’t help but notice the way the Guard’s eyebrows raised sky high at that, and you felt certain there’d be plenty a rumour spreading about how Jonathan Crane, of all the inmates in Arkham Asylum, had gone and managed to knock up some poor girl.

Hell, maybe it’d even win him some favour amongst all the other nut-jobs here.

Good for him.

…Or not. Looking back, tears were streaming down Crane’s face, and he wasn’t making any effort to wipe them away. Oh, god. He didn’t want you to _keep_ it, did he?

Oh, oh, oh—His warm, cuffed hands were wrapping around yours, squeezing thoughtfully. It was so funny, and oh so wrong, but they didn’t feel like a murderer, or even a madman’s hands—they simply felt like comfort. And really, that was what you needed most right now. You knew it. He knew it.

And now he had you right where he wanted you, what else was there to say?

This was it.

The end of the line.

“You’ll come see me again, won’t you?”

His voice was imploring, but it didn’t have to be. Crane had already won.

You hated yourself for it already, but you turned around.

And at seeing the tender, genuine smile on his face, you could do nothing—except nod your head in reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might continue this, might not. We'll see.


	3. Escalation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, a significant time-skip has taken place between this chapter and the last. Reader and Scarecrow are now in a fucked up relationship, of sorts.

“Come on, cut it out, Johnny…” You half-mumbled into your pillow, feeling much too tired to physically bat his wandering hands away, and much too annoyed to let him continue doing it. “I’m still mad at you.”

And no amount of stealthy, under the covers groping was going to change that.

“Still?” Crane whispered incredulously, like he couldn’t believe his own ears. Not that it mattered much, when he began pressing a kiss against yours. His tongue traced over the shell of your ear, slowly, deliberately. Why, you couldn’t help but shiver—and that’s exactly what he was going for. Knowing that only annoyed you all the more. “Come on, now.” He growled, impatience growing.

“Call me Jonathan.”

On any other night, this would have been a simple enough request. Tonight? You didn’t feel like budging an inch. The bastard would only take a mile.

“Fine. Cut it out, _Jonathan_ —” You punctuated his name with about as much sarcasm and spite as you could possibly muster, wriggling just enough out of his grasp for good measure. If you’d let him go on for any longer, God knows, he’d have had your bra half-unhooked by now.

The bedside lamp suddenly flickered on. You heard a rustling noise, and the unmistakable sound of Jonathan angrily snapping his glasses case open, and sliding them back on. Your shoulders jumped. That was never a good sign.

You didn’t know _how_ on Earth Crane managed to look intimidating in nothing but a grey set of pajamas and those almost silly, over-sized spectacles, but manage he did. His furrowed eyebrows and sour expression sent a chill down your spine. “Honestly. You do love testing my patience, don’t you?”

Not wanting to back down, you brazenly nodded, meeting his gaze head-on.

Judging by the manic smile quickly spreading across his face, that may have been the wrong move.

Your vision darkened for a moment, and that was all the time Crane needed.

His weight was on top of you, imposing eyes peering at you through the darkness. You didn’t want to react - didn’t want to give him what he so clearly wanted - but your heart was already racing, and you couldn’t stop the sweat from building up on the back of your neck.

“If you won’t put out for Jonathan Crane, then…” It was an odd scent. One that felt faintly familiar. Something told you not to breathe it in, but he was so close, and you had to gasp for air sometime. “I wonder if you’ll put out for the Scarecrow?”

That sudden, chilling tone in his voice? Yeah. Definitely not a good sign.

“You like to play with fire, don’t you?”

Lightly, you shake your head. Wrong answer.

“Now, pumpkin, you know I hate being lied to.”

Hoo, boy. He must have been _really_ mad if Crane was bringing out the pet names already. He only used them when he was pissed. Never when he felt like being affectionate. “Come now, you must know I’m a reasonable man.”

The nails digging into your face seemed to suggest otherwise, but you kept that little quip to yourself.

“The truth here is…” Okay, so it was suddenly a lot harder to keep quiet with Crane’s breath tickling the inside of your ear—“You _wanted_ to make me mad, didn’t you? Refusing me, just to rile me up…Perhaps you even wanted me to get a little rough with you. Are you following along so far, _darling..._?”

Oh, the heated way he _hissed_ that last line into your ear, you knew you were in for it now. You wanted to deny his words, you really did, but that strange, sickly sweet scent permeating the air had made your mind all fuzzy, and your body a lot more…susceptible, to his suggestions.

“Don’t worry, dear.” Jonathan cooed, and the faux smile on his face made you freeze up in fear. “I’m not so insensitive to the needs of a woman. I’ll give you everything you’ve asked for, even the ones you can’t bring yourself to say.”

Quietly, you swallowed.

This was going to be one Hell of a night.


	4. Just as Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory flashback chapter, because the setting was too good to resist. Next chapter should (hopefully) be the last.

There was always a sick sense of nostalgia that followed in everything Jonathan Crane did.

Waking up just before sunrise.

Dinner at 7PM, no sooner, no later.

Reading for at least, but not limited to, 20 minutes before bed.

He liked the order, he said, precisely because it made him appreciate chaos more.

Maybe that was why, along with all the wonderfully numbing medication you were strung out on, when Crane came crashing into your hospital room—Face red, palms sweaty, and lightly limping—yet still smiling from ear to ear, you didn’t quite have it in your heart to turn him away. “Sorry I’m late,” He’d breathed, “Out-running a man in a full-blown bat costume is harder than you’d think.”

Again, perhaps it was nothing more than the meds you were on, but you’d laughed, laughed and laughed at that, at him, at every single thing that had gone wrong in your life to land you in a maternity ward with a man who’d just escaped Arkham Asylum and out-ran the fucking _batman_ in order not to miss the birth of his first, and quite frankly, hopefully— _only—_ son.

In the end, you really don’t know how much good his presence did you, considering said batman had been silently waiting in the foyer to take him back for a free ride to Arkham once everything was over. Only that the ‘Congratulations!’ balloons he’d left in his wake had been very nice, and the lump sum he’d left hidden inside them had been even nicer.

Reparations, you supposed, for not saving you sooner.

If his lighter wallet helped lighten his conscience, it was fine by you. Not like the Scarecrow was loaded. Scaring people, for a living, as it happens - happened to not make very much in the way of money. Well, he’d sworn to change that, at least. Not himself or his bad habits, mind you. Purely the financial aspect.

Well, it wasn’t as if you’d been expecting any grand promises of change out of Crane, anyway, so you supposed it was better than nothing.

The only thing you had on your side was time.

Time, to wait and see if he’d make you regret making him a father, after all.

\- -

Shockingly, it wasn’t hard to spot the man in a bat-eared cowl sitting alone, sombre as always, seeming much more important than he actually was.

“Didn’t ever think you’d be my chaperone,” He laughed, dry, mirthless.

“Didn’t ever think you’d be a father,” He replied, somehow just as dryly.

“Touché.”

“So…” It was funny, really. How the bat was looking everywhere but at him. He’d spent so many nights running from those peerless eyes, and now he was the one who couldn’t even look him in the eye. Yes, Crane felt certain he’d never forget this day, for as long as he lived. “Did you two think of a name, yet? If not, I can w—”

“No need,” Crane interrupted. “Little Eric Crane has already been welcomed into the world safe and sound, no thanks to _you_.” The spite slipped out of his tongue, smooth as silk, and the bat actually flinched. Oh, this was _fun_.

“She managed to talk me out of Judas,” He smiled, and this time, he meant it.

“So, what are you waiting for? Aren’t you going to cuff me up in front of all these nice people?”

Batman sighed. Crane always was one to push his luck.

“You know I won’t,” came the humourless reply. “As much as I’d like to—Not today.”

His shoulders tensed, as if his own body couldn’t believe what he was about to say. “Just for today, you get to walk out of here a free man. I trust you can make your own way back to Arkham.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’ll make you wish you did.”

Well. That solved that then, didn’t it?

Crane took off like a light, save for one cursory glance behind him. As if checking this was indeed real, and it wasn’t all some sick game.

For what it’s worth, the bat took no pleasure in watching him go.

\- -

Jonathan returned to a chorus of triumphant cries, not to mention a series of downright insulting jeers. Yelling about who owed who, and how much. He couldn’t have cared less.

Only one particular attempt at provocation caught his interest enough to deem it worthy of a response—

“Managed to find that Mistress of Fear, after all?”

Amongst the gaggle of voices, Crane couldn't exactly tell who’d asked. But their identity mattered little, in comparison to the question they’d posed. “No, not quite,” he conceded, quiet enough that he was sure no-one else would be able to hear.

“But I might’ve found something just as good.”

A thin smile spread across Crane’s lips as the guards led him back to his cell, still warm, looking exactly the way he’d left it hours earlier.

In losing a partner, he had gained an heir.


	5. The Worst In Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A return to the present. This chapter is a direct continuation of the events that took place in chapter 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: There's a fairly nasty nightmare sequence that takes place about mid-way into this (it was my first time writing pure horror and I think I went a little overboard). It serves a narrative purpose, I promise, but I thought it warranted a warning in advance.

Rough, skittish hands flitted their way through your hair, every bit as gentle as they were unforgiving. Playing nice, already? It seemed a little too soon for that. Then again, knowing Crane, he was probably just trying to lull you into a false sense of security. That strange, sweet scent was growing stronger, and you suspected it had everything to do with how strangely subdued he was being.

His mood dangled dangerously on the razor’s edge—one false move on your part, and he’d be slicing you apart with it. But that’s exactly why it gave you thrills to wind him up. Taking the initiative before he could take it from you,

“Just going to stop and admire the view, are we?”

You broke the silence first. “If you don’t mind, I have better things to do than get gawked at all night—”

Pain skimmed across your cheek, goosebumps stirring in the wake of nails grazing against skin.

A warning.

“You were saying?”

The glasses came off, replaced with a clear view of the steely, condescending eyes sizing you up, making you feel small. The first to look away would lose, you know, but you didn't feel like trying your luck. Not when everything felt so…off.

Yet Crane loomed closer, sensing your weakness like a shark—fangs bared, ready to prey—so once again, you took the initiative and shoved him away.

One look.

That’s all it took.

Wrong move. Very, very wrong.

It wasn’t fair. Somehow, that little flash of genuine hurt in his eyes hurt even more than the hands pushing you down, forcing your head up, desperate as you were to look away—

“Oh no you don’t,” He hissed, hands moving, pinning yours above your head. It took everything you had not to struggle right out of his grasp. “Don’t you turn away from me. You, of all people, don’t get to turn away from me.”

His eyes, usually so cold and always analytical, were now lighting up with an almost eerie sort of passion as Crane’s feather light touch skimmed circles around your stomach, fingers tracing a definitive line towards the hem of your underwear. “You lost that privilege a long time ago, wouldn’t you say so?”

Spreading your legs open without warning, you barely managed to suppress a surprised squeak—you would _not_ moan for him, not now—but Jonathan wasn’t looking _at_ you anymore, eyes transfixed firmly on your crotch.

Honestly. The man had no tact.

“You still love me, don’t you?”

“I—”

“Ah, ah ah,” Deft, well-worn fingers slipped beneath the confines of your underwear in a flash, wasting no time in making their presence very well-known. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

While the contact wasn’t exactly unwelcome, the intrusion still made you squirm. He always took an extra special, apparent delight in that.

It was like clockwork. Whenever Jonathan knew he’d gone too far, made you mad, he always delighted in pushing his luck; making you come, and making himself come undone in the process.

If nothing else, Crane was consistent in his villainy.

Your breath sped up, as did his fingers. Just when you thought it’d be okay to sigh and let go, surrender yourself to the highly morally questionable actions of the man with his fingers buried inside of you, something blurred the lines and stopped you.

The pain blooming in the crook of your neck was unmistakable—Crane sank his teeth in, and this time, you couldn’t suppress the shriek that left your lips. Panic suddenly flooded your clouded mind, lust giving way to something quite sinister indeed.

“A-ha! There it is!” He cried, and the triumph in his voice really, sincerely made you want to kill him. The comfort of Crane’s fingers soon left you, replaced by his manic, excitable face carelessly peering into yours, instead. “Your fear is a thing of beauty, my love. So why on Earth are you trying so hard to hide it from me?”

Feeling his tongue run across the length of your new wound, all you could do was shudder. This wasn’t Jonathan Crane, half-domesticated super villain. This could only be the work of the Scarecrow. Finally catching on to what he was trying to do, you forced your mind to go blank. You couldn’t, wouldn’t let the bastard have the upper hand here.

“Oh, no…” An infuriatingly deep, sensual voice muttered. “I _do_ hope you aren't going to try and deny me proper terror now,”

Your world went dark for a moment, long enough to awaken to the sight of that infernal, wretched mask. “Not when I’ve so rightly earned it…!”

“Don’t—! Don’t do this,” You spluttered, fear creeping in from every side.

“I can’t help it,” The Scarecrow ground out, as if he truly took no pleasure in it. “I want you. And I _want_ your fear,” He all but growled, practically feral.

The butterflies in your stomach went to die. The distant hum of a funeral procession rang in your ears. Shadows moved, out the corner of your eye.

“You thought you had it made, mm?” His deep, uncompromising voice was the soundtrack to your nightmares. The static always disrupting your sleep. “Silly girl. You can’t tame the Scarecrow.”

No.

No, no, no.

At this rate, he was going to see it.

A forgotten fight flares up inside you at the thought, the urge to fight returning ten-fold. Dignity being the furthest possible thing from your mind, you start thrashing around like a fish out of water, never mind all the good it did you.

“Just—Fucking. Sit. Still.”

His harsh, broken words stung as they hung in the air, hurting almost as bad as the sting of his broken nails in your skin. “No more of these theatrics out of you.”

The Scarecrow made a point of clearing his throat. Loudly.

“Now, I’m not usually one for such coarse language. But, what can I say? You bring out the worst in me. And now, I think it’s high time…”

A snap of fingers. Then, black. “For me to bring out the worst in you.”

\- -

Ripened wheat mixed with the scent of rotting flesh. The sky above glowed orange, bathing your surroundings in a sickly shade of red. A grim and all too final reminder that the sun was setting. With no rhyme nor reason, the thought made you sink to the floor, an unending sense of defeat creeping its way into your very bones. There was nothing here to comfort you, only the towering scores of wheat and the festering soil below to keep you company.

That was, until the unmistakable sensation of a certain something started crawling up your leg. A sharp, little pinch of pain bloomed in your thigh. Whatever it was had just bit you—and worse yet, it was getting closer.

You’d run, if there was anywhere worth running to.

Tentatively, you took one step. Then another. Either time was slowing, or the _thing_ on your leg was weighing you down. Oh, God. Was it…growing?

An autumnal chill suddenly descended upon your shoulders, despite the fact the air was perfectly still. Shaking, you continued to stubbornly force one foot in front of the other, until an unbearable, slimy, slithering sort of pain put an end to that for you. With a quiet, disconcerting thud, you heard it hit the floor.

You didn’t dare look.

You felt it _squelch_ beneath your feet, and it took every ounce of bravery you had to resist the overwhelming, almost insatiable urge to gag. The ensuing shriek it ripped from your throat sounded hollow and empty, staring down at the bloodied mass of torn up flesh, fattened by your blood. Now, the very last thing you wanted to do was _touch_ the fucking thing, but bodily autonomy was a pleasure seemingly not afforded to you in this realm. With no small amount of trepidation coursing through your veins, you reached out to touch it—

Only for the strange, fleshy thing to burst, splitting open with a sickening crunch that didn’t sound too far removed from a skull being cracked open. It seemed as if you’d already hit the physical limit of human disgust, as when maggots started to gather in its place, all you could do was sigh in response. They squirmed around in the dirt before congregating to form a sign, one that urged you ominously forward. Looking around, the sky was beginning to blacken. What choice did you have?

You walked until your legs could move no more, passing all kinds of morbid scenery along the way. First a rotting pumpkin with its carved smile stitched, and the eyes gouged out. Glass that crunched underfoot, only to reveal a pair of cracked glasses. You couldn't help but feel that maybe, just maybe, these signs were starting to get a little…heavy-handed, in their presentation. You had an inkling as to where, exactly, this was going. And if you had any choice in the matter, you’d be clawing your way out of here—even if it meant digging through the ground to do it.

Just up ahead in the distance, you could see it. The back of a cross, with a bundle of vaguely human shaped rags tied to it.

A scarecrow.

“How original…” You muttered, cursing your own subconscious. Coming closer, it didn’t even look all that scary. It was much too small, and the costume was all wrong, for a start. Whoever was in charge of your fever dreams really ought to be fired. You laughed, feeling triumphant for the first time since coming here.

And then it started moving.

The little hands you’d laughed at began flailing, as if the nails embedded into its cloth-covered palms were causing it genuine _pain_. You don’t know why, but you actually felt sorry for it. Maybe being here was starting to rot your senses, too. You tried to reach up—but the wind suddenly picked up again, blowing you backwards.

“Mo…th…er—”

Yellow strands of straw turned dark.

Button eyes became blue.

You recognized that face.

“No, no, no—Not like your father—!”

Ahh.

You said it.

Finally, you said it.

\- -

You awoke to the sound of screaming. At least, you would have, if the Scarecrow’s tatty hand wasn’t clamped over your mouth, keeping it shut. With nothing left to lose, you bit back. The darkness in the room seemed more like a blessing, than a curse.

“He’s not—Not like you,” You whispered, as if trying to convince yourself of the same fact.

“Yes, he’s such a _nice_ boy, isn’t he?” Scarecrow mused, and your blood ran cold. Did he know? Based on just that one outburst, did he already know? “Shame, really. He could stand to learn a thing or two from his father.”

Time stilled.

He knows.

He definitely knows.

“Try it,” you snarled, repressed venom spewing forth, burning its way out of your dry throat. “Touch my son and I’ll _kill_ you.” The red-hot fire in your eyes represented no empty threat. It was simply a promise. Nothing more, nothing less.

The scarecrow loved fear. Lived for it, even. But, in recent years, he’d come to learn how to appreciate the _absence_ of it. Both the flighty, and the fearless. Everyone was so much _fun_.

“You would, wouldn’t you?” he murmured softly, with the faintest hint of faded affection in his voice. “Go right ahead,”

You swallowed, breath catching in your throat. “I’d love to see you try.”

The mask slipped, just enough for you to make out the stitched up little grin hiding beneath it. Testing you. All these years of undeserved loyalty, and the bastard had the nerve to be testing you.

“Here, I’ll even give you a head start.”

Warm, rugged hands wrapped around your own; tugging, guiding, pulling you closer and closer. Defenseless fingers scraped against scratchy, tattered fabric, and you let your palms slip beneath the confines of the coarse rope tied around his neck. Only one thought reverberated throughout your head, damn near pounding into your skull.

Despicable.

This man was despicable.

Taking one particularly deep breath,

It didn’t take long to decide what you wanted to do. And if the scarecrow knew what was coming, he certainly took great pains not to show it. Or maybe he really was just as fearless as he looked? Either way, it didn’t matter. You dug your fingers in, weighting down each side of his sweaty neck. Determined as ever, and armed with a sick resolve to never let go, you squeezed. Thumbs slid down, searched, and quickly found—eagerly pressing against the lump in his throat.

The strangled sound from above confirmed your hypothesis.

Scarecrow or not,

Everybody choked the same.

His mouth contorted into some strange shape—Was he trying to talk? No, it didn’t matter. Nothing he could say would change your mind right now. You pressed harder, powered by nothing but your own blind anger and an intense, overwhelming desire to constrict and cut off his one and only airway. You could feel him pulsing, heart racing, hands shaking from the force of it all.

Maybe it was nothing more than all the adrenaline pumping through your veins right now, but you felt certain those blue, dilated eyes had never looked so beautiful. Really, you could only hope to look half as captivating while choking to death. He suddenly spluttered—Fuck, had your grip loosened?—coughing and wheezing from the desperate intake of stolen air, Jonathan’s hopelessly weary face looking redder and more teary-eyed than you’d ever seen it before.

For a second, you froze. That split second hesitation would cost you, you knew. Terror flooded your gut. Shaking, eyes squeezed shut, you braced for the blowback as best you could—

And as fast as you could hope to blink, Scarecrow’s hips slammed into yours with a force that had your head very nearly smashing into the headboard. With or without you, your body began acting on auto-pilot, hips naturally rising up to meet his.

“Trained you well, haven’t I?” He grinned, triumphantly wiping away any traces of drool from his mouth. Going by his tone of voice and just by how, well, eerily jovial he was about having been choked out, you could tell Crane was back in the driver’s seat, so to speak.

Thank _fuck_ for that.

You wanted to cry, hyper-ventilate and hug him all in one go. But first—

“Oh, God. I’m so, so—”

“Don’t,” He interrupted, hastily placing a pale finger upon your lips. “Don’t ruin it. Don’t be a coward. Be _proud_ of your strength. You’ve faced all your fears head-on tonight, haven’t you?”

Ha.

Ha, ha ha.

What the _fuck_? He hadn’t—surely not, just for this—He’d _planned_ it? All of it?

He pushed you to the brink of insanity, just so you would face your fucking fears?

“Oh, you son of a _bitch_ ,” You launched for his neck again, and this time, you weren't holding anything back. Eric would understand growing up without a father, right? Right?

“That’s it,” Crane gasped, half-sounding like he was enjoying this, much to your disgust. “Do it again.”

You obliged alright. Wrapping your hands around his scrawny little throat had never felt so right. You dug your nails in, even though you didn't have to. “Like that, _darling_?”

Miraculously, you managed to time your knee to his groin just as Jonathan nodded, sending him toppling flat on his back. Finally. The fucker was off of you.

And now, you were on top of him. His stupid, blue eyes widened, and you had to admit, he looked good. What was that look in his eyes called, again?

Oh, yeah.

Terror.

“You know, I think I’m starting to see what all the fuss is about.” You inched yourself closer, running a thoughtful thumb across his quivering bottom lip. “How about it, Professor? Fancy a lesson in fear?”

You grinned. He swallowed.

The door opened.

The two of you immediately leapt apart, as if you’d been struck by lightning.

Oh, fuck.

He was standing there. Just standing there, pale-faced in the doorway, clutching a teddy he was truth be told, much too old for already. “Eric?”

You tried calling for him, covering up for your dumbass of a husband as he hid behind your back and tried to will the last of his erection away. “Just leave this to me,” he whispered, which inspired about as much confidence as the captain going down with the Titanic.

“Are you sure?”

Eric was still stood there, frozen like a statue. Helping explain this one away would be way above your pay grade. Catching on to the anxiety in the air, Jonathan gave your hand a quick, thoughtful squeeze.

“Trust me,” He smiled. “I’m a Doctor.”

You laughed a little, squeezing back.

_“You bring out the worst in me,”_ he’d said.

Watching Jonathan go, gently patting his son’s back, just to help escort him back to his room in the middle of the night—

You had a sneaking suspicion you knew how to bring out the best in him, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, this chapter took a lot out of me. I’m almost sad it’s over. If you enjoyed, consider leaving a comment. With any luck, it’ll make me feel like all the time I spent on this was worth it.
> 
> Edit: Ignore what I said about this being the last chapter. Got an idea for an epilogue I wanna commit to.


	6. Define 'Normal', My Dear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crane is insane. You're in too deep. And yet somehow, in some small way, that's okay.

Jonathan Crane had the substantial nerve to be sat across from you, reading his newspaper. Like everything was fine. Like everything was normal. Like you hadn’t tried to choke the life out of him last night. Looking hard enough, you could tell his eyes were a little sunken-in, but like a lot of other unsavoury details in Crane’s life, he hid his exhaustion well.

Getting sick of playing the waiting game, you cleared your throat to speak. Finally, he looked up. You crossed your arms. “So. Are we going to talk about what happened last night like adults, or are you going to keep playing dumb?”

It felt like he’d been avoiding meeting your gaze all day. Frankly, you were sick of it.

“Last night…?” Crane shot you a quizzical look, one that made your blood boil. “What about it?”

“What abou—?!” Catching yourself, you lowered the tone of your voice. The _last_ thing you wanted to do was send Eric rushing in here. “I tried to _kill_ you, Johnny! That’s not normal!”

His eyes lit up as if to say “Oh! _that_ ,” before settling back into his usual poker face with unsettling ease. Flicking his newspaper back open with an almost impressive lack of tact, “Define ‘normal’, my dear. Wasn’t that just foreplay?” came the absolutely last response you’d been expecting to hear.

Fearless.

The fucking idiot in front of you was far too fearless.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” You threw your hands up, playing to those theatrics you knew he loved. “I guess I forgot how much of a _turn-on_ death was for you. Silly me!”

Standing up, you scraped your chair back with way more noise than you had to. That never failed to piss him off. And right now, that’s exactly what you wanted to do.

“You're angry,” He tried. “I can see that—”

“Oh, no shit, Sherlock!” You interrupted, sarcasm pouring out of every hole. “You're really putting that PhD of yours to good use, huh?”

Oh, now _that_ got a reaction. Crane flinched as if he’d been struck across the face. “Your mouth keeps getting smarter and smarter everyday. Maybe one day, you’ll finally learn how to keep it shut. Or is that too hopeful of me?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” You mused, drawing closer. It didn’t take long to sneak up behind him, cover up those annoying, mechanical eyes with your hands and whisper into his ear. “I think you rather like being kept on your toes.”

“Is that so?”

Oh, Crane _tried_ to keep up the veneer of calm—breath, steady, voice, unaffected—But it was slipping. His heartbeat sped up as your fingers danced along the contours of his throat, calling back memories of last night. There was…something sublime about it, he couldn’t deny. About losing control.

He couldn't deny you the half-choked little gasp you forced out of him, either. One, tentative squeeze was all it took to establish that sweet pressure once again.

He wanted it. Wanted you.

Wanted the hand around his throat, almost as much as he wanted to deny it.

“I know what this is,” You whispered, breath catching lightly. Crane gulped. “It’s foreplay, isn’t it?”

Smirking, you pulled away. You’d had your fun, and it was about time to take Eric to school, anyway.

“Don’t look so glum,” You sing-songed as you walked towards the door. “Maybe when I’m back, I’ll show you a thing or two of what this smart mouth can do!”

You left, satisfied in the knowledge you’d be tormenting a certain Scarecrow’s thoughts for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact:  
> Later that day, Jonathan filed a formal petition to have his son’s name legally changed to Eric “Cock block” Crane.


End file.
